


Danger Night

by faerymorstan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Danger Night, Mental Health Issues, Multi, POV Female Character, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:23:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>first appeared on tumblr. i cleaned this one up so poor penny didn't get the wonky(/ier) version.</p><p>there will probably be more of these.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Danger Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pennypaperbrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennypaperbrain/gifts).



> first appeared on tumblr. i cleaned this one up so poor penny didn't get the wonky(/ier) version.
> 
> there will probably be more of these.

Abigail was supposed to be tired by now.

“It’s nearly her bedtime,” Mary says as she, John, and Mrs Hudson watch Abigail tear around the flat. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

Mrs Hudson beams at John and Mary. “Never mind, you two. You go celebrate—I can’t believe it’s your third already! Feels like the wedding was just the other day!—and Abigail and I will make ourselves some biscuits.”

“By myself!” Abigail says as she careens into the kitchen; John scoops her up before she runs into Mrs Hudson’s legs. “I want to make them by myself!”

“You take this one,” says Mary, not bothering to hide her half-smile as she kisses Abigail’s cheek (“Mummy, you got  _lipstick_  on me!”), “and I’ll check in on the other.”

John grins as he wipes Abigail’s face clean. “You’re giving me the easy one? Is this my anniversary present?”

“It’s the one I can give you in front of Mrs Hudson,” Mary says under her breath. John winks, and Mary makes her way to 221B, her heels loud on the stairs.

“Sherlock?” She opens the door. “Are you all right? It’s been days since you’ve answered our texts.”

Sherlock lies on the sofa in his dressing gown. The room stinks of cigarettes. It smells as though he hasn’t showered in quite some time.

“You went with the off-the-shoulder number, I see,” says Sherlock, whose back is to Mary. “Pity. I like you in the lace, though I’m glad you’ve learnt the proper way to apply perfume.”

Oh.

Shit.

 _Danger night,_  Mary texts John as she kneels beside the sofa.  _Come up when you can._

“It isn’t,” Sherlock complains, “and he doesn’t need to.”

“Sherlock.” Mary touches his shoulder. He jerks. “I’m not John. I can tell when you’re fibbing.”

Silence.

“Tell me,” Mary says. “Please.”

Silence. Then, low and quiet: “All of it?”

“All of it.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. Two. He sits up so abruptly that he almost hits Mary, rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, taps his long bare feet on the rug, and recites, so fast that Mary can barely process his words, “I’ve smoked an entire pack of Parliaments, picked up put down picked up tore open nearly used swore at then flushed a frankly alarming quantity of cocaine—I’ll be hearing about  _that_  from Mrs Hudson if the plumber has to come again, I promise you that—played forty-five minutes of violin, which was not only useless but resulted in Mrs Hudson asking if I knew anything by someone called Adele, which of course I don’t, which I told her, quite bluntly, resulting in her leaving the flat, so I went straight to the Leatherman, which is a truly  _delightful_ tool, very versatile, excellent for the discerning self-mutilator—though that doctor Mycroft made me see referred to me as, what was it, a ‘cutter’? As though I would stop at cutting.  _Please_.— but you and John made me promise to text you if I was going to hurt myself again, and I didn’t want to text you,  _and_  I didn’t want to break my promise, so I put down the Leatherman and I laid down and I stared at the sofa and I did absolutely nothing at all and none of it helped, Mary, my mind is still trying to tear itself apart and you and John are still going to dinner like  _normal_ people and it’s no different to your wedding, I don’t belong, I don’t know how to matter to you like you matter to me and I can’t—I can’t—.”

Mary isn’t sure when she sits next to Sherlock, but she does. Holds him. Rocks him. Kisses his unwashed hair. He isn’t crying, isn’t fidgeting, isn’t leaving.

Is holding her in return.

“You are,” Mary says, toeing off her heels and lying down with him so his head rests on her shoulder, “fantastic. Amazing. So, so good.”

Sherlock grunts. “I haven’t showered all week.”

“Mmm. I noticed.”

“Mocking me when I’m unwell? Is that how you’re going to fix me?” Mary can feel Sherlock’s smile against her skin.

“I’m not going to fix you. You aren’t broken.”

“I can think of several qualified professionals who disagree.”

Sherlock’s forehead is warm on Mary’s lips when she kisses him. “Bugger them. You held yourself together. You did. Without anyone here. That’s incredible, Sherlock.”

Fingers tap against Mary’s side. “A low bar, for a genius.”

“It’s a high bar for anyone. It is.” She squeezes his hand. “And you’re wrong, you know. You  _do_ matter to us like we matter to you, even if you’re not on the paperwork. Abbie asked just this week why you don’t live with us.”

Sherlock’s mouth falls open, but John comes in before he can reply.


End file.
